


news

by jehans



Series: it's for you [16]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 21:47:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehans/pseuds/jehans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre has been keeping this from his friends for a while now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	news

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place in early May, about two weeks after the truth or dare/whatever you give me/things unsaid sequence.

Combeferre has been keeping this from his friends for a while now. And it’s not even that he doesn’t want them to know, it’s just that they rely so fully on him to be a kind of support and guide for them all, and he desperately does not want to let them down.

Enjolras, knows, of course, but Enjolras and Combeferre always know everything about each other. They’ve known each other since high school (they went to the same boarding school), and their friendship has always been nearly supernatural. They easily communicate with glances and body language and neither of them has ever found this strange. Combeferre once thought how rare it is to find one’s soulmate in a boarding school as a teenager, but he certainly found his. Not that he and Enjolras have ever had any even small desire to sleep with each other, their relationship is separate from that and different. But Enjolras is more than his brother, he is truly his friend.

So when he calls Enjolras one morning at 7am to talk to him about this secret he’s been keeping, Enjolras shows up ten minutes later looking like all he did was roll out of bed and pull on a pair of jeans.

“I think I need to tell them,” Combeferre says quietly, pushing a mug of coffee toward Enjolras.

Enjolras purses his lips and sips at his coffee because he knows what that means. “So it’s soon, then,” he says more than asks.

Combeferre nods. “I have to.”

Enjolras nods back. “I know.”

They drink their coffee in silence for a while, but it’s a comfortable silence. They already know all they would say.

 

Jehan is still asleep when his phone goes off. He and Courfeyrac were up late last night. They’ve been officially together for nearly three months now, and still haven’t gotten past the point of whispering conspiratorially to each other deep into the early hours of the morning. They’ve been sleeping at each other’s places every night continuously for a little over three weeks, ever since they got back from Courfeyrac’s grandmother’s funeral. Jehan thinks it must be because they were already such good friends (and so desperately in love with each other) before they started dating, but they fell so easily into each other and became so completely reliant on each other so quickly. They just _know_ each other now, and trust each other completely, and that’s probably the most exciting thing in Jehan’s world.

So when Jehan’s phone goes off in the morning, he wakes up to Courfeyrac’s arms around him and he smiles, reaching for the phone.

It’s Combeferre.

“Hello?” he asks groggily as Courfeyrac mutters sleepily and curls up closer against Jehan’s side.

“Hey, Jehan,” Combeferre responds. “Are you and Courfeyrac available this evening?”

“Hang on,” Jehan says, then pokes Courfeyrac. “Courf are you doing anything tonight?”

Courfeyrac groans and mumbles something that sounds like, “Sleeping.”

“Yep, we’re free,” Jehan tells Combeferre. “Why?”

“I need to get everyone together,” Combeferre says. “I have something to talk to you all about.”

“Bad?” Jehan asks, eyebrows knitting together.

Combeferre hesitates and sighs. “You know, Jehan, I don’t think you’re particularly going to like it.”

Jehan sits up a little in bed, his frown deepening. “‘Ferre, are you okay?” he asks quietly.

“I’m fine,” Combeferre answers quickly. “I promise, don’t worry. I’ll see you tonight, okay? My place at seven?”

“Yeah, see you then,” Jehan agrees, but when he hangs up, he’s still worried. So he pokes Courfeyrac fully awake to talk.

 

Bossuet is on the phone when Joly wakes up, rubbing his eyes and squinting at his boyfriend, who’s making coffee in their little kitchenette.

“Yeah, sure,” he’s saying into the phone and coffee grinds spill all over his feet.

Joly sighs fondly and pushes himself out of bed to shuffle across the floor and reach around Bossuet, kissing his shoulder lovingly as he takes the coffee can and measuring spoon out of his hand, taking over the job of making coffee.

Bossuet turns and smiles at him when he feels lips against his skin (he’s wearing nothing but boxers) and tries to duck to get a kiss on his lips, too, but Joly grins and dodges him to finish making the damn coffee.

“Yeah, we’ll see you tonight,” Bossuet says to his phone. “Seven, I’ll tell Joly. Okay, bye.” And then he hangs up and grabs Joly, who’s flipping the switch on the coffee maker and who squeals with laughter upon being seized and kissed soundly.

When he’s released, he giggles again while Bossuet wishes him a good morning. “What’s tonight at seven?” he asks.

“We’re going to Combeferre’s,” Bossuet answers, reaching around Joly (and pecking him on the cheek on the way) to get a bowl out of the cabinet. “Everyone is. He’s got something to tell us all.”

Joly frowns. “Oh.”

And then Bossuet’s lips are on his shoulder, fingers pulling at his this t-shirt to get at his skin. “He says he’s fine,” he murmurs reassuringly, “he just has something to tell us.”

Joly nods, but isn’t entirely convinced. He’s quickly distracted, though, as Bossuet’s lips wander up his neck and Bossuet’s hands wander down his torso to the elastic of his boxers.

 

“Talk to Feuilly,” Bahorel says into a phone as Feuilly marches out of his room to find out _why the hell_ Bahorel’s phone has been ringing for the past _five minutes_ , and then suddenly a cell phone is being launched at his head.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Bahorel!” he shouts, dodging it, and the phone (luckily) bounces off his shoulder and into his hands.

“It’s Combeferre,” is all Bahorel says in answer before returning to his massive pile of scrambled eggs.

“Yeah, hey,” Feuilly says into the phone.

“Hi, Feuilly.”

“Hey, Combeferre. What’s the reason for your call and Bahorel chucking a projectile object at my face?”

“I need you guys to come over tonight,” Combeferre tells him.

“Okay, what time?” Feuilly asks, giving Bahorel the middle finger as Bahorel laughs.

“Seven.”

Feuilly purses his lips. “I get off work at 7:10,” he said.

“We can wait for you.”

“It’s important, isn’t it?” Feuilly asks, recognizing the tone in Combeferre’s voice.

Combeferre hesitates before answering. “Kind of.”

Feuilly nods. “I’ll get off early,” he says, hanging up before Combeferre can argue. Then he lobs the phone back at Bahorel, yelling, “Combeferre’s at seven tonight, fuckface!”

 

“I just don’t get why _you_ can’t tell me now,” Grantaire is saying and Enjolras sighs yet again. “I mean, we fuck each other up the ass all the time and you can’t tell me your BFF’s secret thing that he’s going to tell everyone tonight anyway? Combeferre and I aren’t even that _close_.”

Enjolras groans. How _this_ turned into a fight, he has _no idea_. “It’s not about us, Grantaire,” he says in exasperation. “Combeferre confided in me, I can’t betray that, I would do the same for all of you.”

“But I’m your _boyfriend_ ,” Grantaire cries. “Right? I mean, that _is_ what you wanted, isn’t it? Isn’t that what you told me?”

“Yes,” Enjolras almost shouts back, “you are my boyfriend, all right? That doesn’t mean I can violate someone else’s trust in favor of yours.”

Grantaire scoffs. “You mean you can’t put _me_ in front of _Combeferre_. Fuck’s sake, Enjolras, why aren’t you fucking _him_ if he’s your goddamn favorite person in all of existence?”

Anyone else would probably scream in frustration at this point, but Enjolras just gets still and _deadly_. “My relationship with Combeferre is not sexual and therefore essentially _none_ of your concern,” he snaps quietly. “And if you are going to act like some sort of jealous _child_ , I refuse to engage with you right now.” And he turns, and starts to walk out of the room.

Grantaire feels like he’s just been stabbed, and, panicking, shouts after him, “Changed your mind so soon, huh? Guess the shine has worn off and now you realize you’ve been fucking someone so far beneath you. Sorry to have wasted your time!”

Enjolras turns around and glares at him. “This isn’t me talking, Grantaire,” he says sharply, “it’s you.” And then he leaves, swinging the door to his room shut behind him.

 

Jehan and Courfeyrac are curled up on the couch together, stroking each other’s palms and fingers, when Grantaire comes bursting through the front door in a rage of tears and storms into his room, slamming the door behind him.

“Shit,” Courfeyrac breathes, looking after him and Jehan squeezes his hand briefly before placing palm on his jaw and kissing his lips.

“I’m going after him,” he whispers and Courfeyrac nods.

“I know,” he says, smiling gently. “I’ll go home and see if Enjolras needs someone to kill.”

Jehan frowns. “Please don’t die,” he says, and Courfeyrac grins and kisses him again as they untangle from each other.

“I’ll see you later, my love,” Courfeyrac murmurs. Jehan smiles and presses lips to his hand before he lets go.

After Courfeyrac has shut the door behind him, Jehan approaches Grantaire’s door and knocks.

“Fuck off!” he hears from inside, so he opens the door.

Grantaire is lying face-up in the middle of his unmade bed, bottle of whiskey in hand. Jehan has seen him like this before, but not recently.

“Do you want to talk about it?” is the first thing he asks.

Grantaire flops his free arm over his eyes. “Fuck off,” he says again, but weakly.

Jehan reaches up and fiddles with the chipping paint on the jamb. “Do you actually want me to fuck off?” he asks, “Or is this ‘fuck off’ as in ‘make some tea, we might be a while’?”

Grantaire heaves a sigh and Jehan goes to put the kettle on.

 

When Courfeyrac gets home, the apartment is scary quiet and Enjolras’ bedroom door is shut.

“Enjolras?” Courfeyrac calls into the silence, not particularly wanting to get any closer to that door than he has to. “It’s Courf!”

When he hears nothing, he tries again.

“I offer myself as blood sacrifice!”

Enjolras’ door opens just enough for him to look out and stare icily at Courfeyrac. “What?” he snaps.

“You know, in case you need to murder someone?” Courfeyrac says, then shrugs. “I don’t know, man, R looked pretty upset I’d figured you’d had a fight.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes and shuts his door again.

 

By the time they’re all supposed to be at Combeferre’s, Grantaire and Enjolras still have not spoken to each other, Jehan has gone through three mugs of tea, Grantaire has gone through half a bottle of whiskey, and Courfeyrac and Enjolras have spent that last few hours in silence.

Jehan and Grantaire are already there when Courfeyrac and Enjolras show up. Grantaire is sitting sullenly in at the far end of the couch and Enjolras doesn’t even look at him before going straight to Combeferre, who’s in the kitchen, causing Grantaire to cross his arms angrily and look away, but Courfeyrac launches himself at Jehan the second he seems him, gathering him up in his arms and holding tight, muttering, _I love you I love you_ over and over in his ear.

Jehan hugs him back. He doesn’t need to ask what’s going on, the last time Grantaire and Enjolras turned nasty toward each other, Courfeyrac had pulled Jehan into his room, away from the yelling, and just held him and whispered, “Promise me we won’t ever be like that, _please_.”

Feuilly is the last to show up, having come straight from work, and when he does, Combeferre asks them all to sit down (which they do, on various surfaces once the couch is full, and on the floor), and stands up in front of the television, nervously clearing his throat before he begins.

“I’ve been keeping something from all of you lately,” he confesses first thing.

Jehan wants to ask if this is why he didn’t ever pick truth when they were playing Truth or Dare, but he doesn’t. Courfeyrac wonders, vaguely, if Enjolras knows, but then realizes of course he does. Grantaire still looks away.

Combeferre takes another breath. “I have to go back home.”

It’s met with a sort of confused silence.

_Home?_

_But this is your home._

“You mean — back to your family,” Joly says finally, and Combeferre nods.

“Why?” Bahorel demands, eyes suddenly wide with panic (and maybe rage).

“You all know I’m not particularly close with my family,” Combeferre begins to explain, wearily. “My brothers and I never got along and my sister just wasn’t around that much. My dad. . . .” He trails off and swallows. “But my mom needs me right now.”

“What happened?” Bossuet asks carefully.

“My brother got sick,” Combeferre says. “The younger one. And maybe we don’t get along, but he’s still my brother and they’re still my family, and I have to be there.”

He looks around at seven faces staring at him with a kind of desperation. Well, eight, really. Enjolras’ emotions are contained as always, but Combeferre can read him like a book.

“When are you leaving?” Jehan finally asks after a silence. He’s clutching Courfeyrac’s hand like it might stop him from drowning, and Courfeyrac is clutching him back.

Combeferre smiles fondly at him. These are his kids. How can he leave them?

“My flight’s in two days,” he says and tries not to wince as Jehan visibly blanches.

“That’s soon!” Feuilly protests. “You’re going so soon?”

“How long have you known you were leaving?” Bahorel asks. He looks guarded and defensive, like he’s getting ready for someone to hit him.

“Well, I started to think I might have to about two weeks ago,” Combeferre tells them all. “But I knew for sure five days ago.”

“Why didn’t you tell us before?” Bossuet asks. He isn’t confrontational or accusatory. In fact, he just kind of sounds sad.

Combeferre sighs. “I wanted to avoid this,” he admits, smiling a little. “The earlier you knew I was leaving, the longer I’d have to look at your sad little faces.”

Courfeyrac lets out a little half-hearted laugh at that, and Bahorel mumbles something like “Who are you calling little?” but it’s meant in good nature.

“I’m sorry,” Combeferre finally says, shrugging weakly. “I don’t want to leave you all. I wouldn’t if I didn’t have to.”

Jehan launches off the couch, throwing himself at Combeferre to hug him, and Joly and Bossuet are right behind him, followed by Courfeyrac, Feuilly, and Bahorel. Even Grantaire stands up to pat him on the shoulder.

Combeferre looks up over all of their heads at Enjolras, who tries to smile, but only manages to looks sad.

 

Enjolras really doesn’t expect too see Grantaire again that night when he leaves Combeferre’s. He’s actually the first to go. The pain of losing Combeferre weighs heavier on him and he can’t abide the sadness in the room. The others can take comfort in each other tonight, Enjolras will see Combeferre in the morning for breakfast. And he fully expects to be alone until then, thinking Courfeyrac will probably go home with Jehan to seek comfort in each other.

So he’s caught off guard when, after falling back onto his bed with a hugh sigh, his bedroom door opens and Grantaire sticks his head inside.

“Can I come in?” he asks timidly as Enjolras peers at him in confusion.

Enjolras nods.

Grantaire takes a deep breath and enters the room. Shutting the door behind him, he crosses the room and climbs into Enjolras’ bed, lying on this stomach beside him.

There’s a pause as Grantaire pulls on his curls and doesn’t look at Enjolras and Enjolras resists the urge to reach out and take Grantaire’s hand.

“You’re losing your best friend,” Grantaire finally says softly, “aren’t you?”

Enjolras sighs and nods again.

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire whispers.

Enjolras aches to hold him, but they might still be fighting. He’s not sure.

“You know I haven’t changed my mind about this, right?” he asks quietly. “About you?”

Grantaire winces. “I just —” he says brokenly, “— what if I’m not enough for you? What if I’m just. . . .”

Enjolras watches as he trails off. Then he breathes, “You are.”

Grantaire finally meets his eyes. Enjolras holds his gaze. They breathe.

“I shouldn’t have called you a child,” Enjolras finally says.

Grantaire smirks. “I might’ve been overreacting.”

“You are my boyfriend,” Enjolras presses. “And you are important. I don’t hold Combeferre higher than you.”

“He’s just your best friend,” Grantaire says, but not viciously.

Enjolras nods for a third time and turns to look at the ceiling. “And I am losing him,” he sighs. “For a while, anyway.”

Grantaire looks at his golden boy, dejected and alone, and says meekly, “You still have me.”

The smile that Enjolras turns and gives him is so tender it makes his chest ache. Fingers thread through his.

“I am glad for that.”


End file.
